


This Means War

by destimushi



Category: This Means War (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Smut, what happened in Bangladesh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: Before Lauren and Katie, there was just Tuck and FDR.A snapshot of Tuck and FDR's lives leading up to meeting Lauren. And what the fuck happened in Bangladesh?
Relationships: Franklin "FDR" Foster/Tuck Hansen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	This Means War

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a year ago, and then for some reason never posted it. I hope this will still bring some joy to those who are still as head over heels for these two idiots as I am.

FDR checks his phone for the millionth time and curses under his breath. Where the fuck is he? Take Tuck to show up late tonight of all nights. Not that tonight is special or anything. It's their usual Friday take-out movie night at FDR's, something they've been doing for as long as FDR can remember. It's not the first time Tuck's missed it, but tonight is special because tonight— 

Fuck. FDR drains his beer and stomps into the kitchen to grab another. Tonight's special because FDR has finally decided. Finally made up his mind after all these years to nut up and do the right thing. The digital clock on the microwave ticks to seven, and the elevator to FDR's apartment finally pings open. He spins around, and his smile dies on his lips when Tuck comes through with a pretty brunette in tow. 

Katie?

“FDR, buddy!” Tuck grasps FDR’s hand and yanks him in for a chest bump like they always do, but tonight, FDR barely notices Tuck’s proximity. 

Katie frowns when their gaze meet over Tuck’s shoulder, and she shakes her head and begs him silently to play along. 

“Hey, man, what took you?” FDR swallows and rearranges his face into something akin to a smile. He’s a goddamned spy, he can do this. 

“Ah, you know,” Tuck says with a shrug. He turns to face Katie and his smile grows so soft it steals FDR’s breath away. “Had to pick up Katie and forgot my mobile at home.” He reaches a hand out to her, and she tucks her slender frame into his embrace. “Katie, this is FDR, my best friend. FDR, this is Katie. My girlfriend.”

FDR’s been shot more times than he can count, but none hurt more than those two little words as they stab him straight in the heart. Katie’s outstretched hand waits for him, and it’s another pause before FDR grasps it and forces the corners of his lips to curl up. 

“Nice to meet you, Katie.” Her hand is as fragile as he remembers. 

“And you. Tuck’s told me so much about you.” 

“All good things I hope?” 

“Of course, you’re my best mate,” Tuck says as he comes around the island counter with two beers and hands one to Katie. 

FDR’s cheeks are wooden, but he smiles because deep down, he sees how Tuck looks at Katie. Sees how Tuck leans into her when they chit-chat about nothing in particular. Sees how important she is to him because Tuck has never, ever brought a girl to take-out movie night before. 

Tuck looks happy, and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it? 

FDR tries to focus on the conversation. Tuck’s telling some story about their mission in China, except he’s spinning it like a travel agent’s work trip. He leaves out the part where he took a bullet for FDR, and the bit where they were trapped in a Triad safehouse with two mags and a pistol between the two of them. FDR always feels most alive when he’s in those situations where his life hangs on by a thread, but it’s not just the adrenaline of escaping death that makes him feel so alive. It’s cheating death with Tuck by his side, laughing as they shoot their way out of any sticky situation. 

And now Tuck has a new partner, someone who will see a side of Tuck FDR only dreams of. 

“Isn’t that right?” Tuck looks at him expectantly, his smile so wide the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

FDR freezes. What are they talking about? “I’m sorry—” The front gate buzzer goes off and FDR mutters a silent prayer. “Ah, food’s here. I’ll get it.” 

He buzzes the delivery guy up, pays for their Chinese take out, and schools his face into a wide smile before heading back into the kitchen. He needs to get a fucking grip.

They pull the food out of the paper bags and crowd around the kitchen island. Tuck hands Katie a pair of chopsticks, and they laugh as she tries and fails to stab a spring roll. FDR watches from across the counter, chewing on a piece of lemon chicken, and the tightness in his chest lessens a little everytime Tuck throws his head back and laughs. 

“Hey, FDR, where's the bathroom?” Katie puts down her napkin and hops off the barstool. Of course she doesn't know. The one time they slept together all those years ago it was at her place. 

“Down the hall. First door to the right.”

They watch her slim frame disappear around the corner before Tuck touches his arm. “I hope it was okay for me to bring her. I'd have called but, you know, and I really wanted you to meet her.”

“It's cool,” FDR says, hoping he sounds as nonchalant as he pretends to be.

“She's really lovely, isn't she.” Tuck has that faraway look in his gorgeous blue eyes, and FDR feels a little piece of himself wither away. “I'm gonna marry her.”

Fuck.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, what d’you think?”

FDR can't breathe, can't think as Tuck’s words burn his whole world to ashes. “That's great man. I'm really happy for you.” And he is, because he's never seen Tuck smile at another person the way he smiles at Katie. The way Katie smiles back at him as if he'd hung the moon. Tuck deserves to be loved like that, and if FDR's being honest, can he really give Tuck that sort of love? 

Katie comes back, and her smile grows impossibly wide when she sees Tuck. She takes her seat next to him and the lovebirds exchange a quick peck on the lips. 

Tuck has been his partner since the beginning, and FDR doesn’t know when his feelings turned from tolerance to fondness to this. He’s not sure if Tuck feels the same way about him, doesn’t even know if the guy’s into dudes, but sometimes FDR catches Tuck watching him, and that smoulder in his eyes gives FDR pause. 

But that’s all moot now. Even if there was something between them, they’ve obviously missed their window. It’s so easy to forget the ticking clock when they spend every waking moment together, and now Tuck has found someone else.

And he’s happy, and that’s good enough for FDR. 

~*~*~

Tuck checks his reflection one last time and straightens his bowtie. Because he can’t get married in a crooked bowtie. 

The venue is filling up with people. Friends and family, mostly from Katie’s side, mill about with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres as they wait for the ceremony to begin. Tuck closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs until he’s lightheaded. It’s happening. It’s actually happening. 

When he declared he was going to marry Katie all those months back in FDR’s apartment, he was trying to get a read on his partner. When FDR wished him happiness, Tuck knew it was time to close that chapter of his life. It saddened him, but Katie lessened the blow of rejection.

Not sure if he could even call it rejection if he never came out and asked FDR out. But how does one go about asking one’s best mate on a date without coming off like a total wanker? No, Tuck made the right choice by not giving into his feelings. The possibilities of losing FDR as a partner and dear friend is too frightening to consider. 

The door to his dressing room whispers open, bringing the hubbub of voices with it, and Tuck spins in time to see FDR slip inside. He shuts the door, cutting off the noise, and Tuck’s nerves ease at the sight of the most important person in his world. Soon to be second most important when he takes his place on that altar and says his vows.

How is it possible to love two people so fiercely that it physically hurts Tuck to choose? 

“Hey, man,” FDR says as his eyes traverse the length of Tuck’s body. “Looking mighty fine.” 

“Yeah?” Tuck spreads his arms and looks down the plane of his body. His crisp three piece tux sits snug on his frame, and when he shifts, the light catches the sheen in the dark blue fabric. It’s a gorgeous ensemble, a wedding gift from FDR. 

“Yes, you look absolutely dashing,” FDR bobs his head from side to side and raises his voice in a mock British accent. “Fit to eat for the Queen.”

“Hey, we do not jest in Her Majesty’s name.” 

FDR rolls his eyes and eats the distance between them in long strides. He stops in front of Tuck, dressed to the nines and ready to take his place next to Tuck on the altar. There was never a doubt that FDR would be his best man. In fact, Tuck is sure FDR would personally tranq whoever else Tuck may have asked at the last minute just so he could stand in. “Yeah, yeah, my apologies.” He reaches up and takes Tuck’s bowtie in his long fingers, and Tuck sucks in a sharp breath when FDR straightens the damn thing. 

Shafts of afternoon sunbeams spear through the window, illuminating the room in a soft, buttery glow. Tuck looks up at FDR’s face and really studies it. The tip of his tongue peeks out from between plump lips as he fiddles with the loops on Tuck’s tie, his brows are furrowed, and his piercing blue eyes are staring so intently at Tuck’s throat Tuck’s sure he can feel the heat of FDR’s gaze. 

FDR hums, then pats down Tuck’s lapels before dusting imaginary lint off Tuck’s shoulders. “There, all better. Can’t have you going out there looking like a buffoon.” 

“Thanks, mate, every man’s dream to be called a buffoon on his wedding day.” Tuck glares at FDR, but his lips are twitching into a smile even as FDR laughs. 

They share a chuckle together in the safety of Tuck’s dressing room. A private joke between them. When the laughter peters out, Tuck is left standing impossibly close to the only man he’s ever loved. “FDR…”

“Hm?” 

“Thank you. Really, for everything.”

FDR’s eyes soften, and the crystalline blue turns fluid. “Yeah, man. Whatever you need.”

Tuck sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth and searches FDR’s face for any trace of humour. There is none. Only a vulnerable desperation that takes Tuck’s breath away. “Whatever I need?”

FDR’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Yeah.”

Tuck closes his eyes and balls his hands into fists. He shouldn’t. This is not right. He’s going to ruin everything. But he can’t walk into the next stage of his life with Katie carrying a secret. A secret so big it will crush him until he crashes and burns. Tuck runs his hands up FDR’s arms, watches the slow tremor that rolls through FDR when his hands rest on FDR’s solid chest. 

Without another word, Tuck stands on his tippy toes and brushes his lips against the corner of FDR’s mouth. 

It’s a chaste kiss. A kiss that marks the beginning of the end of something pure. A kiss that utters all the words of farewell Tuck can’t bring himself to say. They’ll still work together. They’ll always be best mates, but this kiss, this kiss is the declaration Tuck was too afraid to make. A declaration that can no longer happen. 

FDR’s breath hitches, and the rims of his eyes turn a dark shade of pink. “Tuck…”

Tuck shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t know how even if he tried. He’s getting married to a woman he genuinely loves. He wants to build a life with her. Wants to have children with her. Grow old with her. And it’s not fair to FDR, to Katie, to  _ himself _ to make that declaration now. 

A soft knock at the door shatters the delicate moment, and FDR jumps back. Tuck clears his throat. “Come in.”

“We’re ready for you,” the wedding planner says while clutching a thick folder to her chest. “All the guests are seated. I need you at the altar and you”—she turns and points at FDR—“need to get ready to walk down the aisle.” 

The door shuts behind her and the room falls silent once more. Tuck turns to FDR, and the sad little smile on his face seizes Tuck between the ribs. 

“This is it,” FDR says. 

“I love you, man.”

“I know.” 

~*~*~

FDR paces the length of the hospital waiting room for the hundredth time. Thousandth? He doesn’t know, and frankly? He doesn’t care. The old lady giving him the evil eye will have to deal. It’s been hours. Eight hours and seventeen minutes to be exact. What could be taking so fucking long? 

The hospital smells of antiseptic and death. It’s a place FDR never wants to come back to if he can help it. The chemicals burn his nose and tease out memories he’s long buried along with his braces and unibrow, but right now, with nothing but the sound of the ticking clock and anxiety keeping him company, those memories rear their ugly heads. 

He’s a fucking kid again, shaking, scared shitless, his sneakers squeaking as he walks down the hospital hall because Nana couldn’t leave him home. He doesn’t know what’s going on, only that Nana’s upset, and that makes him upset. Maybe they’ll see his parents soon. Mom and Dad always make things better. 

FDR takes a deep, shuddering breath and scrubs his hand down his face. He can’t do this. Shouldn’t be thinking about that fucking day where his world turned upside down. He hates hospitals. But he needs to be here right now for Tuck. 

_ Tuck _ .

He looks up at the open doorway as a nurse flutters by, but no one comes into the room. No doctor, no Tuck. Just emptiness and this unease gnawing at his insides. He got the call from Tuck just after dinner, freaking out, his voice tight with fear and anxiety. 

They’ve been through a lot together, from Vietnam to Pakistan and every other country one can think of where the locals want to turn an American spy into Swiss cheese, but Tuck has never been afraid. He laughs in the face of danger, and as Shakespeare so eloquently put it, bites his thumb at death. Fucking crazy Brits. FDR shakes his head and snickers, and the little old lady glares at him again with disapproval and apprehension. Okay, maybe he’s acting a little deranged. 

But FDR has never heard such fear in Tuck’s voice as he did in that one phone call that turned his stomach to ice, and FDR was out the door and peeling out of his underground garage before he hung up the phone. 

Now, here he is, stuck in the goddamn  _ waiting room _ because he’s not family. That’s just such bullshit. He’s the closest thing to a family that Tuck’s got, well second closest after Katie. 

FDR growls and yanks on his hair with both hands, then slumps into a plastic chair and slides down until his head is resting on the low, hard chair back. He’s promised himself to never wait around and be helpless again after his parents’ death, to always be a man of action and initiative. To tackle a problem head on instead of waiting for the world to hand him what he thinks he deserves. 

Maybe he should have acted on his feelings for Tuck earlier, then they wouldn’t be here, in this goddamn hospital. Waiting. 

FDR closes his eyes and relives the single most precious moment in his life. The minutes leading up to Tuck’s wedding, where Tuck’s soft, plush lips had grazed his own. Time had stopped, then, for a single heartbeat, and FDR floated so high he could touch the sun. But the high came with the low as Tuck pulled away and gave him a sad smile, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he told FDR that he loved him. 

And FDR said the single most stupidest thing in the universe. 

_ I know. _

What a jackass thing to say, but what was he supposed to say to a man about to walk down the aisle? Tuck loves Katie. Just because he also loves FDR too doesn't change anything. Everyone’s got that one person who got away, right? Tuck will be FDR’s, and when FDR’s finally come to terms with that, he’ll find himself a nice woman or man and settle down. 

He snorts at that and shakes his head. Fat chance. 

A rush of footsteps, and FDR shoots out of his chair as Tuck runs into the room. He’s wearing the ugliest set of scrubs, his hair in a shower cap, and a blue mask hangs off his ears and down his chin. His smile is insanely wide, so wide FDR’s cheeks hurt just looking at him. 

“Well? What the fuck, man?” FDR rushes to Tuck and grabs him by the shoulders. 

“It’s a boy,” Tuck says, and his eyes shine with so much pride and joy FDR can’t help but feel his own face split in a shit-eating grin. “And Katie is fine. We got here just in time.”

“Oh thank God,” FDR breathes and the rock in the pit of his stomach makes way for a flurry of butterflies. “You got a name?”

“Of course we got a name, we’re not savages.” Tuck pulls the mask off his face and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Joe, we’re calling him Joe.”

~*~*~

Sometimes Tuck feels guilty when he drags FDR to do stuff with his family. Like Joe’s karate competition where FDR is the only non-family man. The single mothers (and fathers?) like to throw eyes at him, but FDR always behaves when he’s around Tuck’s family. 

“Hey, buddy, good job on that takedown!” FDR claps Joe on the back as the boy runs off the mat and into FDR’s open arms. 

“Uncle Frank, you came!” Joe buries his face in the crock of FDR’s neck and gives him a big sweaty hug. 

“Of course I came. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” FDR picks Joe up in one arm and kisses him on the cheek. It warms Tuck’s heart to see his best mate and his son get along so well. Ever since Joe was born, FDR has made it his top priority to be involved. To give Joe an uncle when what’s left of of Tuck’s family is too far away to matter. 

Katie strolls up with Joe’s backpack hooked over one arm and her travel mug in the other hand. “Hey, little man.”

“Mom!” Joe squirms out of FDR’s arms and hugs Katie’s legs, and the two of them set off in their own little world, talking excitedly about things Tuck can’t quite follow. 

It sucks being the parent that’s always away, and Tuck almost wants to trade in field work for a desk job if it meant getting to watch Joe grow more. He looks over at the man standing next to him, smiling fondly at his son, and Tuck shakes his head.  _ Almost.  _

“They grow up so fast,” FDR says so softly Tuck’s unsure if it was meant for him. 

He responds anyway. “Yeah, little bugger was in nappies the last I saw him.”

FDR snorts and punches him in the shoulder. “Don’t get melodramatic.”

“Melodramatic? Me? Nah,” Tuck says with a chuckle and takes a seat on the bleachers with the rest of his family as the next match begins. 

The obnoxious dad with the bully for a son is up next, and Tuck has no stomach for the massacre that’s to follow. He runs his fingers through Joe’s hair, humming softly as he leans into FDR as if gravity is pulling them close. 

Sometimes Tuck wonders what would have happened if he’d been braver and told FDR how he felt. If he didn’t let the string of women fool him into believing that FDR was straight. Maybe he believed it because he desperately wanted to. Because the alternative would be admitting that he’s a bloody coward, and Tuck is no coward thank you, sir. 

That kiss still haunts him.

Sometimes the taste of FDR’s lips bubbles to the surface when they’re stuck in close proximity on a mission, and it would be so easy to lean over and reclaim that taste once more. To savour it like he never got to the first time. But Tuck’s not that kind of man, and despite the desire roiling in his gut every time he stands close to FDR, his love for Katie wins out. 

Tuck’s gaze shifts to the head of brown wavy curls and warmth blossoms from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. His wife. Tuck is a lucky man to have landed such a beautiful woman, and to have her overlook all his flaws and agree to marry him is a bloody miracle. She loves him despite his quick temper and frequent absences, and it sours Tuck’s soul to have to lie to her about his profession. 

It’s for her own safety. That and the safety of their son. It’s for the best. It has to be. 

Tuck shifts his attention to the fight on the floor and swallows a wave of annoyance as the arsehole father screams insults to the poor boy his son is beating on. He hates it. Hates lying to the woman he loves. Hates lying to his son and playing the weak travel agent when all he wants to do is to go down there and give the oaf a piece of his mind. 

“Hey, man, what’s up?” FDR touches his elbow. The touch shakes off the red creeping around the edges of his vision. 

“Nothing, mate,” Tuck lies and clears his throat. 

FDR doesn’t push, but he scoots a little closer on the bench until their thighs touch, and that warmth grounds Tuck until his heart stops racing. Katie turns around and gives him a questioning look, her brows furrowed in concern. Tuck shakes his head and smiles at her, and she reaches behind her to squeeze his ankle with slender fingers. 

Tuck sighs. He doesn’t deserve all this love and affection, but he damn well will bask in it for as long as he’s able. 

~*~*~

The missions was short and easy as all hell. Recon in Dhaka. Just observe and report, absolutely do not engage with the target. Roger that. 

FDR packs up his bag and turns to see Tuck sitting on the edge of the cot, staring into space. His whole fucking body aches watching Tuck like this, vacant and devoid of all the spark that makes him the man he is. 

“Hey, man, you ready to go?” FDR asks and shoulders his duffel. Their plane is due to take off in a few hours, but FDR isn’t sure if Tuck’s ready to head back stateside just yet. 

“Nng.” Tuck’s hollow gaze flicks to him then the door, then to the small black bag by his feet. He pushes to his feet and bends over to grab the handles, and FDR makes up his mind in that split second. 

“Sit your ass back down.” He drops his bag and pulls out his satellite phone, dialing by muscle memory. “Yeah, it’s me. I’ve sent the report back to HQ via a secure transmission.” FDR listens to the operator and pinches the bridge of his nose while Tuck watches him with a frown. “Mhm, mhm, yes, I’m glad she’s pleased. Please let her know Tuck and I will be staying here for a while longer. Call it a much needed vacation.” 

“I’m sorry?” The operator sounds incredulous, as if Bangladesh is the last place anyone would want to vacation at. 

“We’ll be in touch.” FDR slaps the flip phone shut and flips the antenna down, then turns to find Tuck staring at him with wide eyes.

“What the fuck, mate?” 

“What?” FDR slips the phone into his duffel and pulls out his personal phone. 

“Have you gone mental?” Tuck asks, but his words lack the usual heat behind them. 

“No. What I  _ am _ going to do is book us a week long vacation,” FDR says as he finds the number for the hotel and dials it, “and you’re gonna like it.”

“Fuck off, I need to get home to—” Tuck stops mid-sentence and his brows furrow as if he just remembered something. FDR swallows and watches the swath of emotions twisting Tuck’s handsome features into something he hardly recognizes. He’s never seen Tuck so sad and broken and it hurts him more than he cares to admit. 

The line clicks and a voice interrupts FDR’s thoughts. “Pan Pacific Sonargaon, how may I help you today?”

“Ah, yes, I’d like to book the International Suite.”

“For how long, sir?” 

“A week.” 

Tuck looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes, but shock replaces the sadness in his face. “International Suite?” he mouths. 

FDR ignores him and leaves his information and credit card number before hanging up. “Let’s go.” 

Tuck looks as if about to argue, but shuts his mouth and grabs his bag before following FDR out the shabby safe house they’d been holed up in the past three days. 

The drive to the hotel doesn’t take long, but Tuck is silent as they weave through the crowded city. They check in at the front desk, and when the receptionist asks if they’d like refreshments delivered, FDR shakes his head before swiping the key cards off the counter. 

Tuck follows a step behind him, quiet, pensive, and it takes every ounce of FDR’s self control to not turn around and yank him into a hug. That sort of public display of affection will get them raised eyebrows back home, but here? Yeah, no thanks. They ride the elevator to the top floor and straight into the lavish suite. Definite whiplash going from the hovel they were in just last night. 

The bill will be hefty, but FDR doesn’t care right now. All he wants to do is pull Tuck out of his funk. 

“So?” FDR spreads his hands and does a three-sixty. “What d’you think?”

Tuck looks around him, no doubt already taking in the possible escape routes and potential ambush angles before dropping his bag on the ridiculously large leather couch. “It’s insane.”

“Isn’t it? It’s perfect.” FDR’s bag joins Tuck’s on the couch before the man himself flops on the cushions. “Oh, man, so much better than that sad excuse of a mattress from the safe house.” 

Tuck takes a seat next to him and sighs. “Why’re you doing this?”

The air thickens with tension, and FDR sits up straighter. Why is he doing this? It seemed like a good idea at the time, an impulsive, good idea, but now he’s not sure how to put that into words without sounding like a jackass. “I dunno.” He shrugs and chews on his lip for a second. “Just thought we could use a vacation, you know?”

“Bangladesh? Couldn’t have booked us a room in Hawaii or something?” Tuck teases, and the claws of nerves loosen around FDR’s chest.

“You know how much a night at the Pan Pacific costs in Hawaii?” He punches Tuck’s shoulder and feigns indignation. “I’m only a lowly government drone.”

Tuck snorts at that but doesn’t answer, and they fall into a comfortable silence. 

FDR leans back and sinks into the couch, slowly letting out a soft sigh. “I’m sorry, man. I really, really am, about what happened with Katie.”

Tuck tenses, then it’s as if all the bones in his body melted and he slumps back into the couch next to FDR. “Hnm.” A pause, a beat of silence that seems to chill the room around them, then Tuck says, “Kinda saw it coming, y’know?” FDR nods. “I mean, I’m always away, and it just kills me that I couldn’t tell her.”

“I get it.”

“No, no I don’t think you do.” Tuck’s head lulls toward FDR and drops on his shoulder. “It’s like everytime we go away and I have to lie to Katie, to Joe, a little bit of me dies. And I can’t—I don’t know—I can’t keep doing that to them.”

FDR doesn’t know what to say, so he does the next best thing and squeezes Tuck’s knee.

“And you know what the real fucked up bit is? Like, real fucked up?” Tuck turns and looks at him and there’s a hint of insanity in his sharp eyes. “When she asked me to give her one good reason why she shouldn’t file for divorce? I couldn’t give her one. Not a single one. I could have made something up? Anything. But I—”

“You couldn't lie to her anymore.” 

Tuck deflates until he’s pressed up against FDR. His lower lip trembles, and tears spill down Tuck’s cheeks as the dam holding them back crumbles.

FDR has never seen Tuck cry before. Not when FDR’s digging a bullet out of his shoulder, not when he’s sewing his stomach up to hold his guts in. Not when he pushed FDR out of the way in Dubai when a building collapsed on them. And FDR doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to quell this panic threatening to drown him as Tuck heaves and sobs into his shoulder. 

Fuck, he doesn’t even know what to do when Nana tears up talking about his parents at Christmas time. Tuck curls up into him, his knees pulling up as he folds in on himself, and the tears just won’t. Fucking. Stop. FDR turns and pulls his trembling partner into his arms, and he’s whispering nonsense into the infinitesimal space between them as he rubs Tuck’s back with trembling hands. 

“T-they’re my fucking world and I f-f-fucked it all up.” Tuck burrows into FDR harder, his forehead grinding against FDR’s collarbone so hard FDR’s afraid he’ll break the damn thing. “I don’t deserve them. It’s for the b-best. They’re better off without—”

FDR crushes his lips to Tuck’s and eats those filthy words from his mouth. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, but he can’t stand listening to Tuck put himself down. Tuck is the best man he knows. Loyal to a fault and so full of life. He loves his family, loves Katie and Joe with everything he has to give. He loves FDR, and he’s almost thrown his own life away more than once to prove it. 

Tuck is twice the man FDR will ever be, and FDR will be damned if he’ll sit here and listen to this self-deprecating bullshit. His lips linger against Tuck’s before he pulls away, and the stunned silence between them is so thick FDR drowns in it. Tuck blinks, his plump lips parted as he draws in shallow breaths, and his wild eyes dart around FDR’s face, searching. 

“You shut your fucking mouth,” FDR croaks. “They’re not better off without you. You’re still in their lives. In  _ Joe’s _ life. You won’t abandon him.”

Tuck shakes his head like a boy caught stealing. 

“And you’ll love that boy like I love him. And if you’re gonna continue this line of self-hating bs then—” FDR takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re fucking gonna let me love you instead.”

Tuck’s eyes widen, and the afternoon sunlight glistens off unshed tears. FDR stares into those eyes that he knows so well. Those eyes that open into Tuck’s soul. Many nights FDR would fall asleep thinking about them, fantasizing about waking up and seeing those pretty eyes first thing in the morning. He never wants to see those eyes so lost. Never wants to see Tuck so aimless and self-loathing. 

Before he can chicken out, FDR lunges forward and claims Tuck’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Tuck stiffens, but only for a second before he melts into FDR’s touch. His lips part, and FDR doesn’t need a fucking written invitation. 

The first time they kissed, it was a chaste thing. Lips against lips. Soft and sweet. FDR licks into Tuck’s mouth now with a ferocity that scares even himself, and he loses himself in the sweet taste of it. Tuck growls, and the boneless heap is replaced by the hard-bodied, demanding Brit FDR knows and loves. He rears up, his hands grasping the front of FDR’s shirt, and his tongue tangles with FDR’s until the kiss becomes a battle of wills. 

FDR smiles at the onslaught. Tuck kisses like he does everything else: passionate and aggressive and thorough as fuck. 

Time becomes meaningless. A mere afterthought when FDR has Tuck in his arms and sucking the air from his lungs, and it’s a lifetime before Tuck pulls away, gasping. His eyes are still wild, but the insanity is gone, replaced by something hot and demanding. His fists are still balled around FDR’s shirt, but his demeanour has changed, and FDR’s not sure what this means. 

“FDR…” Tuck licks his lips and closes his eyes for a moment. “I...you…”

“What is it?” FDR strokes the side of Tuck’s neck, his thumb brushing over the erratic flutter of Tuck’s pulse over and over. 

“Are you sure?” Tuck leans his forehead against FDR’s. “Can we really do this?”

FDR knows what Tuck is asking. Knows that once they cross that line, there’s no turning back. “I just want to make you feel good.”

“It’s so soon, too soon—” Tuck shifts back and pulls out of FDR’s arms. 

FDR growls and yanks him back, locking his arms around Tuck’s torso. “It’s been six months. I’m not asking you to marry me. I just—you need this.”

“I need  _ you _ ,” Tuck whispers, and his voice is so small and broken FDR shivers. “I need  _ you _ to not leave me too.” 

FDR’s heart shatters but he swallows the pain. Because his pain is nothing compared to Tuck’s. “I’ll never fucking leave you, man. Never.” 

Tuck doesn’t respond. Just nods and sags into FDR’s embrace with a shuddering sigh. 

They sit like this—with Tuck straddling FDR’s lap and FDR’s arms locked securely around Tuck’s back—until their breathing evens and the sun dips beneath the horizon. 

~*~*~

Is it really a holiday if one stays in the hotel room for the entire duration of said holiday? Not that Tuck would normally care about these things, but this  _ is _ FDR’s time away as well, and he feels like an arsehole for not wanting to go see the sights. 

For all its faults and political unrest, Bangladesh is gorgeous, and under different circumstances, Tuck might have liked backpacking his way around a little. But right now he’s content to sit in his posh hot tub inside his posh hotel room, waiting for FDR to come back with breakfast. 

After that first afternoon when Tuck broke down and bared his soul to FDR, things have become easier between them. Not that it was ever awkward, no, that would never happen, but FDR had been babying him since the divorce finalized. Tuck hates being babied. Hates being treated like some delicate thing that would shatter if FDR so much as raised his voice. 

Tuck sinks lower into the tub and turns on the jets, luxuriating in the hot water as pressurized streams work the tension out of his lower back and shoulders. This is really, really lovely, and he’s grateful FDR made the executive decision for them both to stay in Dhaka for an extra week. 

The sting of the divorce eased a little every day as the last six months crawled by, but the guilt ate at him until all that was left of him was this writhing ball of anger. Tuck knew this—he’s not blind to the way his colleagues dodged around him like skittish baby deer—but he didn’t know how to fix it and he didn’t care. FDR was the only one who, while gentle, was firm in calling him on his boarish behaviours. Tuck is, yet again, so grateful to have FDR in his life. 

The soft click of the lock sends a rush of adrenaline through Tuck before he consciously tells his body to chill out. There’s no danger here. No one knows who they are or what they do for a living. To the outside world, they’re just two good friends taking a holiday together. A holiday that involves copious amount of hanky panky, cuddling, and tasty room service. 

Tuck grins and heat crawls up his neck. Oh, the sex has definitely been copious. There’s not a spot in this massive suite they have not sullied. The bar is a nice height for him to lean over as FDR took him from behind, and the table by the large window looking over the city is an exhilarating spot to press FDR against as Tuck sinks into his tight heat. After exhausting their own stash of lubricant, FDR had called the front desk asking for massage oil “for his sore neck.” When the receptionist asked if he’d like to book a massage, FDR politely declined, claiming he’s knows someone very good with his hands. 

“Honey, I’m home,” FDR calls from the front door, and Tuck can just make out the soft squeak of the wheeled tray making its way to the back of the suite where their bedroom is. The tray is no doubt loaded with all sorts of food they’ll both pay for at the gym later, but maybe they’ll find ways to burn it off before it comes to that. 

Tuck ducks under the water one more time and wipes his mind of his maudling thoughts. Katie is the past, and though he will always love her, he knows their separation is for the best. Joe will always be his son. There isn’t a force in the world strong enough to keep Tuck from being the best father he can to him. This little escape from reality has shown Tuck that all is not lost in his life, so perhaps it’s time he moved on and allowed himself a little indulgence. 

Especially when that indulgence involves his favourite man in the world. 

Tuck emerges from the spacious bathroom and wraps a thick, fluffy robe around himself. “I’m coming.”

“You better hurry,” FDR calls from the bedroom. “My stomach waits for no man!” 

Tuck laughs, a sound he’s almost forgotten how to make. He rounds down the short corridor and steps into their shared bedroom. FDR has laid out the food on the foot of the bed, the man himself is dressed in a robe identical to Tucks and on his stomach, facing the door and sucking on a ripe strawberry. 

Tuck growls. “You’re getting berry juice on my side of the bed.” 

“We can get new sheets.” FDR pops the rest of the strawberry in his mouth and grins. 

“We’ve had the sheets changed nine times since we checked in,” Tuck says and crosses the room to sit next to FDR. “It’s incredibly wasteful.”

“Would you rather sleep in dried come and lube?” 

Tuck snorts and smacks FDR upside the head. “Don’t be a smart alec.”

“Then shut me up,” FDR rears up. 

Tuck leans down and licks along FDR’s lips—stained red with strawberry juice—then presses in for a kiss. FDR smiles, then opens his mouth and lets Tuck in. He tastes like strawberries, literally, and the sweetness enhances the sweetness of FDR’s mouth. For a man’s man like FDR, he has surprisingly tender lips and an affinity for tender, languid kisses. Tuck cups FDR’s cheek and strokes his cheek, his tongue dipping and swiping into FDR’s mouth until they’re both panting. 

“The eggs are gonna get cold,” FDR murmurs, but he makes no move to break away. His blue eyes sparkle with a knowing challenge, but Tuck isn’t ready to play his game just yet. 

He pulls away, his lips smarting from where FDR’s been nibbling, and makes a very concerned face. “You’re right. We should eat.” FDR blinks as if coming out of a trance, then his eyes narrow into blue slits, and Tuck uses every bit of his spy training to school his expression. “C’mon. Let’s see what we have here.”

Tuck pulls the first chrome dome lid off the plate closest to him, and his mouth waters. Scrambled eggs, pan fried potatoes, bacon. Kisses and dark promises forgotten, Tuck pulls the lids off the rest of the platters and his stomach growls. Before him is an assortment of fresh fruit and baked goods. Strawberries, grapes, sliced oranges, papaya, mangos, and a neatly processed plater of jackfruit, arranged in the shape of a fan. Donuts, danishes, and other pastries Tuck doesn’t even know the names of. 

“This is breakfast for at least four people!” He turns to FDR with raised eyebrows. 

“So?”

Tuck rolls his eyes and picks up a slice of fresh mango. “Why do I bother?”

FDR sits up and crosses his legs, uncaring that his robe has fallen open. Tuck swallows the mango harder than intended as his eyes zero in on FDR’s half-hard cock. 

It’s strange, really, how comfortable they are with each other despite what’s been going on this past week. Tuck doesn’t want to think about how easy it was to get naked with FDR, how natural it was to lose himself in FDR’s embrace, and how phenomenal it’s been sleeping with his best friend. 

A part of him was worried after the first time they had sex that things would be different between them somehow. But nothing's changed except for Tuck's affection for FDR, and his trust in his partner deepens with every kiss and every touch.

Why didn't they do this before? Why did they wait until now, when Tuck is heartsick and broken? Is FDR only doing this to be supportive? Or does he want Tuck the same way Tuck wants him? 

Tuck looks away and busies himself with the plate of eggs and bacon. He doesn't want to think about the fact tomorrow they'll have to get in a plane and resume their normal lives. Tomorrow he'll have to go back to his loft flat where he's still living out of boxes. 

He doesn't want to go back to a life where FDR is just his friend and partner. 

“Hey.” FDR's soft voice cuts through Tuck's whirling thoughts. “Earth to Tuck, anyone home?” Sometimes he is such an arse. 

“Yes?” Tuck turns to glare at FDR. 

“You're thinking so hard there's smoking coming out of your ears,” FDR says with a glint in his eyes as he holds out a piece of jackfruit to Tuck's lips. “What's on your mind?”

Tuck pulls the rubbery fruit between his lips and considers lying, but something in FDR's expression gives him pause. Should he ask? Should he risk everything and take that leap of faith? He would take a bullet for FDR, and he knows FDR would do the same for him, but can he in good conscience ask FDR to do something that can put both their careers in jeopardy? 

Being a federal agent, a real life superhero, has been FDR’s dream his whole life. If Tuck asks, FDR would risk it for him, but can he really do that? This job is also  _ his _ life. It’s the one constant that’s kept him from going mental when he lost everything, the only thing keeping him together while the rest of his life fell apart. 

The universe must be having a laugh. 

Tuck shakes his head and smiles, though his cheeks feel wooden. “Nothing, mate. Just thinking about tomorrow.”

“We can stay longer.” 

“No, we can’t.” Tuck picks at the eggs on his plate. “Missing two dinners at Nana’s in a row? Do you have a death wish?”

FDR laughs, the sound washes over Tuck and chases away the melancholy. “You’re right.” FDR rears onto his knees and crawls up next to Tuck, his blue eyes darkening like a storm. “Our last day here. We better not waste it.” 

He picks up a piece of scrambled eggs and brings to Tuck’s mouth, resting the soft, buttery pocket on Tuck’s lips. Tuck swallows, his gaze locked on FDR, and he licks the morsel from FDR’s fingers. Something flashes behind FDR’s eyes, and the storm there rages with a ferocity that takes Tuck’s breath away. He swallows the eggs, flicks his gaze to the strawberries, and FDR reaches for one without him asking. 

The fruit is sweet and tangy, but Tuck barely tastes it as FDR’s finger lingers on his bottom lip. The calloused pad strokes into Tuck’s mouth, followed by a second finger, and Tuck can’t help his breathy moan. There’s something about the way FDR is watching him, about the way his fingers explore Tuck’s mouth and stroke his tongue that send shocks of pleasure straight to his cock. 

All week they’ve done everything under the sun, most of it probably illegal in the country they’re hiding in, but this, this is something different. Intimacy on a level where carnal desire takes a back seat for a change. FDR pulls his fingers out of Tuck’s mouth, and Tuck whines at the loss. He begs FDR in silence but he’s not sure what for. And that frustrates him. 

FDR picks up a small piece of pan fried potato and slips it between Tuck’s lips, and Tuck lunges for it not for the need to be fed, but for that contact again. For FDR’s fingers to fill his mouth like he’s filling a gaping hole in his soul. 

Another piece of potato, then some eggs, then a small piece of a sweet donut. Tuck leans his head against FDR’s shoulder, his mind quiet and his body lax as he accepts each piece of food, chews, swallows, and parts his lips for more. Eating has never been so mindlessly pleasant, and Tuck sinks into a place he’s never experienced before, a calm that consumes his entire being until all that matters is the next morsel. The next bite. The next brush of FDR’s fingertips against his lips and tongue. 

FDR whispers sweet nothings into the infinitesimal space between them. His breath is warm against Tuck’s skin, his arm strong around Tuck’s shoulder, and Tuck melts into FDR’s side until his body moulds to FDR’s, until there are no cracks between them. 

Tuck loses track of time. Loses his swirling thoughts of  _ maybe _ ’s and  _ what-if _ ’s and allows himself to simply exist in FDR’s orbit. The food tastes better, the eggs softer, the fruit sweeter, and the pastries are the most decadent things Tuck has ever tasted. He wants to stay like this forever, but when he waits for the next bite, it’s FDR’s lips that press against the parted seam of his mouth. 

The kiss is so tender, so sweet and gentle Tuck doesn’t know how to respond. He hesitates, the tip of his tongue quivering as he sucks in shallow breaths. FDR doesn’t push, his movements languid as he flicks his tongue against Tuck’s bottom lip, then the corner, then the top, then back to the bottom again, all the while darting in and out as if playing a game of tag with Tuck’s lips. 

When Tuck finally braves a lick of his own, his tongue inching past his lips to lap at FDR’s mouth, he’s found. FDR tastes of berries and exotic fruits and buttery pastry. Of home and safety and a place where Tuck belongs. 

FDR is where Tuck belongs. 

Tuck pulls away from FDR’s body and swings a leg across FDR’s lap, straddling his muscular thighs. He cups FDR’s jaw, enjoying the scrape of stubble against his palms, and deepens the kiss. It’s as if he’s kissing FDR for the first time all over again, rediscovering the flavour of his mouth and the texture of his tongue. This is the first kiss they should have had instead of that chaste, sad little thing, and Tuck will spend the rest of his life making up for that moment of weakness if FDR will let him. 

FDR parts Tuck’s robe, his hands sliding along his side and around the back, holding Tuck so close there’s no space between them. Tuck shivers, and suddenly it’s too hot to be wearing anything. He shrugs the robe off, lips still glued to FDR’s, then pushes FDR’s robe off his shoulders. 

The food sits forgotten at the foot of the bed, watching on with silent approval as FDR scoots up the bed, taking Tuck with him and leaving the discarded robes behind. The spacious bedroom shrinks, and the outside world blinks out of existence as FDR dots hot little kisses down Tuck’s neck. Tuck throws his head back, baring his neck as he bares all of him to the man he cherishes above himself. 

It’s their last day here in this bubble of paradise that FDR has created. Last day before Tuck has to go back to his empty life and live the consequences of his choices. He will never regret becoming an agent, but there are enough other regrets to weigh him down. Though, that’s neither here nor there. Not today, not when FDR’s tongue is lapping at his nipple and his nails are dragging down Tuck’s back. 

Not when Tuck is so completely lost in this heated moment. So completely lost in FDR’s arms. 

The scent of jasmine permeates the air, and Tuck is acutely aware of FDR’s slick finger circling his hole. The massage oil warms with every rub, and soon Tuck’s whole body is on fire. He grinds down, searching with a desperate need, and his rock-hard cock bumps FDR’s erection with every jerk of his hips. 

“Fuck—Tuck—buddy—” Short, breathy moans punctuate FDR’s words. “You gotta sto—”

“Put it in me then,” Tuck growls and shoves his hips forward until their cocks are grinding between their sweat-slicked bodies. “Come on.”

FDR bites Tuck’s left nipple, and the sting leaves Tuck breathless and weak and too wrung out to even scream. Impatient hands grip Tuck’s arse, lifting him and spreading his cheeks until his hole is lined up with the tip of FDR’s cock. Tuck whines, his nails dig into FDR’s shoulders, and he bears down with force. 

The stretch is painful, and his tortured ring of muscle screams even as his thighs tremble with the effort of holding himself up. He needs the pain, needs FDR’s mark on him to last for days even after their holiday is over. So Tuck grits his teeth and takes another inch and leans down to kiss the worry off FDR’s face. “Don’t stop,” Tuck gasps against FDR’s mouth. “I need it. Need  _ you _ .”

FDR’s arms snake around Tuck’s waist and his hips snap upward, burying his cock firmly inside Tuck. Tuck screams into FDR’s mouth, and the corners of his eyes sting with tears. Fuck, it hurts, but it’s so fantastic and Tuck’s never going to get enough of having FDR fill him to the brim. Never going to forget how FDR fits inside him like his arse is made to sheath FDR’s dick. 

The burn is intense, but a soothing finger greasy with more oil massages Tuck’s stretched ring until the pain ebbs away, making way for a familiar sensation that leaves Tuck’s whole body tingling. Tuck sighs, and his cock that had softened from the pain fills again as FDR starts to move. 

He clings to FDR for dear life as his body bounces to meet FDR’s thrusts. His thighs are burning, there’s sweat in his eyes, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep up with the way FDR’s clutching his body and yanking him down. He’s so full of pleasure, overflowing with it until his fingers are numb and he can’t feel his legs. Can’t feel anything except for that spark in his core where FDR’s cock brushes against his spot so firmly he’s seeing stars. 

Somewhere in the back of his head, Tuck wonders if he should grab his cock, but his hands are busy keeping him anchored. He’s okay not climaxing. Content to hang in limbo forever if it means having FDR in his arms like this. But it seems FDR has other ideas, and he crushes their bodies impossibly close and grunts. “Rut against me, paint me with your come.” 

Tuck’s never finished without  _ something _ warm wrapped around his cock before, but he complies because FDR says so. Because right now Tuck’s too blissed out to argue. He gyrates in FDR’s lap, and his cock head catches on the ridges of FDR’s taut abs. FDR grins before his brows furrow as if he’s concentrating on something, then his hips shift, his rhythm changes, and his dick slams against Tuck’s spot with relentless accuracy. 

Spots blossom across Tuck’s vision, and he’s shouting as pressure builds low in his gut. It’s too sudden. He’s not ready. But his balls are drawing up and his arse is clenching and the rub of his cock against FDR’s skin is too much. He screams as his orgasm punches through him, and he barely registers FDR’s guttural groan as he convulses in Tuck’s arms. 

The room is quiet save for their harsh breathing, and it’s another drawn out moment before FDR lays down on the bed, pulling Tuck with him. Tuck’s release is painted all over FDR’s chest, but neither of them care as they cuddle close, enjoying each other’s warmth as they catch their breaths. 

Tuck sighs and closes his eyes and burrows into FDR’s body. He can’t stop tomorrow from arriving, but he can damn well enjoy today for as long as FDR will have him. 

~*~*~

It’s been months since they got back from their impromptu vacation. 

They don’t talk about Bangladesh, and FDR is okay with that. 

After getting back stateside, life carried on as usual. Missions, debriefs, trips at the drop of a hat. Where the bad guys went, Tuck and FDR followed. Normal, as how things should be. How FDR thinks Tuck wants things to be.

Tuck seems happier since they got back from Bangladesh, and everyone at the office breathes a little easier, FDR included. Not that FDR thinks Tuck’s  _ that _ insufferable when he’s broody, but he doesn’t want their boss to put Tuck on leave until he got his shit together. 

The idea of a temporary partner sends shivers down FDR’s spine, and not in a good way. 

FDR returns to his harem of flight attendants and Tuck does what Tuck does. FDR doesn’t ask. Asking rips open too many wounds that have barely healed. 

“Thank you for having me over to your Nana’s today,” Tuck says as he watches the kids run like headless chickens around the yard. 

“You kidding me? You’re my best friend, we’re family.” FDR shoves a piece of cake in his mouth. It’s fantastic cake, gluten free even. What’s this world coming to when cake free of gluten can taste so good. He sits back and takes in whatever Tuck is looking at and smiles. It’s a beautiful day, dinner was great, and FDR hasn’t been this relaxed in ages. Sometimes it’s nice to just unwind with some good food and good people. He looks over at Tuck and his fingertips tingle. Good people indeed. 

Nana walks over, and in her usual blunt Nana way, she goes straight for gold. “You’re not going to make me any great-grandbabies this way.”

Tuck’s face falls, and FDR wishes it wasn’t Nana who said that. Because he can’t punch his Nana in the mouth. Nope. 

“It is a family gathering, Nana. I don’t think you want us making any great-grandbabies today.” FDR goes back to his cake. He needs to stab something, and the soft, pillowy  _ gluten free _ cake will have to do. 

“To be fair, I have already provided you with a wonderful great-grandchild,” Tuck says. 

“Yeah but that doesn’t count because you screwed it all up.” 

“Ouch.”

_ Yikes _ . FDR scarfs down more cake and wonders if he should go get a second slice. Pa comes over and whisks Nana away, and FDR breathes a little easier. “It’s kinda gross when they kiss.” He tries to distract Tuck and lash out in the only way he can against the woman he loves most in his life. 

Tuck hums, and hums some more while watching the kids. “God I love that kid.” 

FDR studies Tuck and swallows another mouthful of cake. Tuck is quieter than usual, reserved, and he’s got that faraway look in his eyes that FDR knows so well. Something’s up, and instead of guessing like a douchebag, FDR is just going to do the adult thing and ask. 

“What’s going on?” Tuck ignores him and continues to stare into space. FDR taps him on the arm. “Hey, Mr. Deep-In-Though. Want to talk about it?”

“Well I just think it’s lovely, isn’t it. It’s really lovely.”

“What’s lovely?” Shit. Has Tuck finally lost it?

“They way they look into each other’s eyes just like that.” Tuck points to Nana and Pa dancing. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s the cataracts.” FDR doesn’t try to be mean, but he’s still pissed at Nana for saying those terrible things to Tuck.

Tuck gives him a look and turns to face him. “Okay, you asked me a serious question. Didn’t you.”

“Yeah? Yeah.”

“So. What, you want a serious answer?”

“Yeah, you want me to put the cake down?”

“Yes, please.”

“Ah, okay.” FDR hopes he looks more nonchalant than he feels as he puts down the cake. 

“Thank you,” Tuck says, and FDR doesn’t miss the note of apprehension disguised as indignation in his voice. 

“The cake is down.” FDR turns to face Tuck. “Talk to me.”

“Okay, man to man.” Tuck looks away, and FDR’s heart skips a beat.  _ Oh boy, this is going to be the real deal. _ “I trust you. I know you’d do anything for me—”

“Yeah.”

“—I’d do anything for you. I know that you would take a bullet for me. I would for you as well. You know that.” Tuck stares into FDR’s eyes, and FDR can taste the earnestness in that intense gaze. “Right. Can you imagine, all of that—”

“Yes,” FDR whispers and his heart flutters and the tiny amber of hope in his chest stirs. What’s Tuck getting at? Is he actually...he is actually…

“Can you imagine what that would be like”—Tuck pauses. FDR forgets to breathe—”to share”—another pause, and FDR’s so tense he wants to scream—“with a woman.” 

FDR is glad Tuck turns to look at Nana at that very moment, because no years of spy training could have prepared him for that blow. His face twitches, he knows it does, and he tries to school his expression into something neutral. “No.”

“Okay.” Tuck deflates, but FDR doesn’t care right now.

“No,” FDR repeats, and he’s not sure who he’s saying it to anymore. 

Tuck resumes staring dreamily at Nana and Pa dancing. FDR wants the ground to split and swallow him whole. Even after Bangladesh, after what they shared, even after all this time, Tuck won’t choose him. 

Why can’t they have what he just described? They already have it. And it’s not like Tuck doesn’t like dick, so what gives? FDR swallows his anger along with the last of his cake and pushes to his feet. “I’m gonna get another slice of cake. You want anything?”

Tuck shakes his head, and FDR storms away before he says something stupid. 

~*~*~

Everything hurts. And he’s driving backwards, yet Tuck is surprisingly nonchalant about the task at hand. The task being keeping them alive. 

FDR is his best mate, and Tuck wants to keep it that way. Because losing FDR would be too devastating. It would destroy him. And it’s because of that, Tuck decides to let Bangladesh become a fond memory and move on with his life. 

He can date again. He’s a handsome fellow, and he can be charming when he wants to be. Sure, women aren’t lined up outside his flat like they are outside FDR’s, but FDR isn’t your average bloke now, is he. 

Lauren’s nice. Pretty, smart, and boy, that little black dress. He’d have to be blind to not appreciate that. And she likes him. Why else would she laugh at all his lame jokes? 

What Tuck doesn’t understand, is why is FDR pursuing her with as much gusto as he is. Does he actually like Lauren too? Or is he angry with Tuck? He’s got every right to be, angry that is, but he’s ruining Tuck’s second chance at a happy life, and that’s just very ungentlemanly of him. 

Though all that is moot now as they drive down the highway, Lauren at the wheel, and FDR sitting behind them, loading his gun. The cat’s out of the bag, and there’s a good chance Lauren will never speak to either of them after all this is over. Provided they survive the deranged mobster trying to gun them down. 

Tuck turns to look at Lauren. Her sun-kissed golden hair flies like wild ribbons, her jaw is set, and her beautiful blue eyes are staring straight ahead. Her knuckles are white as she jams her fists into her lap, and a tendon in her neck twitches whenever a bullet flies too close. 

The girl has bollocks of steel, that’s for sure. 

He’s sad that things have to end this way, but a part of him is surprisingly relieved. Maybe he and FDR and fix whatever is left of their friendship. Maybe things can go back to the way they were. 

Two black SUVs charge around the corner of the parkade, their tires squealing as they accelerate. They’re getting close. Too close, and Tuck shakes himself out of his trance. He drags Lauren over, knowing exactly how well the girl can handle a car chase, and pulls out his gun.

“Okay, turn around,” Tuck says, and he hides a small smile when Lauren glares at him before slamming on the breaks.

She spins the car around in a sharp turn. Tuck reaches for the car frame, but he’s still sore from his earlier brawl with FDR and the metal slips past his fingertips. He’s falling, and there’s not a single thing he can do about it. 

Tuck stares at Lauren’s shocked face, and jerks to a stop when a large hand grips his arm and drags him back into the car. FDR. Of course it’s FDR. 

Gun shots, and a shower of bullets. Tuck turns, raises his gun, and puts two bullets in the goon shooting at them. When the SUV falls back, he stares into FDR’s sparkling blue eyes and something exhilarating thrills through him. They smile at each other, and all the bullshit and anger melts away. 

Just like that, they’re buddies again, and Tuck would not have it any other way. 

“I’ve missed you,” FDR shouts over the ripping wind and loud engine. 

“Missed you too,” Tuck says, and he can’t help the large grin pulling across his face. 

“I love you, man.” The mirth in FDR’s voice is like music to Tuck’s ears. 

“I love you, too, man.”

“We’re back!” 

There are bad men chasing them with guns blazing, but Tuck hasn’t felt this alive since the last time he got into a scrap with FDR by his side. This is the life he wants, the life he  _ needs _ . FDR is his partner, his best friend, and the love of his life, and Tuck doesn’t know how many more life threatening situations they need to get into before he can admit that to himself and to FDR. 

Maybe this is a sign. As unfair as it is to Lauren, maybe she was brought into their lives to show them that they already have a good thing going. With each other. 

They fly out of the parking garage, and Tuck feels so alive he wants to stand up and shout his joy into the world. After they arrest Heinrich, Tuck will confess his true feelings to FDR once and for all. No more hiding, no more fear. 

And no more bloody road. 

Lauren brings the jeep to a screeching halt seconds before they tumble over to certain death. Tuck huffs out a sigh of relief, but it’s short lived when they hear the roar of an angry engine heading their way. Tuck and FDR exchange a look, then hop out and take aim. 

“It’s bulletproof!” FDR yells over the ringing in Tuck’s ears. 

Tuck sucks in a breath and looks over at FDR, and fear unlike any he’s ever tasted chokes him. Is this it? Just when he’s finally sorted it all out, is this how it ends? 

“The lights!” Lauren shouts from behind. “Shoot the headlights! Front impact airbags on all models after 2006!” 

FDR looks at me, a devil-may-care grin on his face, and they both take a knee. Their bullets leave their guns at the same time, and time seems to slow as the airbag punches Heinrich unconscious. The SUV sways and tumbles, rolling on its side toward them like death’s very own marching band. 

Lauren stands rooted, and she looks between Tuck and FDR frantically before jumping to the side. A large hand grips the back of Tuck’s jacket and yanks him backwards. There’s no time to think, and Tuck shields his face with both arms as the SUV rolls past them in a shower of broken glass and dented metal.

It crashes their Jeep and the whole flaming mess rolls over the edge of the unfinished highway. A gust of wind clears the smoke, and Tuck glance over at Lauren. She pushes to her feet, her slender frame looking a thousand meters tall as she dusts herself off. Her chest heaves as she looks over the edge of the drop, and her gaze swings back to us after she’s had her fill of whatever horrors are beneath us. 

Someday, she will make some lucky bloke a very happy man. 

Tuck should get up and go comfort her, check to make sure she’s not hurt, but FDR’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his solid chest feels safe. He clutches Tuck to him, his ragged breathing loud in Tuck’s ear, and Tuck can’t think of a better place to be right now. 

They’ll have to sort through this mess after the police and medics and media are finished with them, but Tuck’s not worried because FDR will be by his side. 

And Tuck is never letting him go again. 


End file.
